The Gentleman Rogue
Margaret McPhee
Inescapable, undeniable and impossible to resist!In a Mayfair ballroom, beautiful Emma Northcote stands in amazement. For gazing at her with eyes she’d know anywhere is Ned Stratham – the man whose roguish charm once held her captivated.But that was another life, in another part of London.With their past mired in secrets and betrayal, and their true identities now at last revealed, Ned realises they can never rekindle their affair. For only he knows that they share a deeper connection – one that could make Emma hate him if she ever discovers the truth…Gentlemen of DisreputeRebellious rule-breakers, ready to wed!
‘You made me believe you were something you were not.’
He raised his eyebrows at that. Just as she had made him believe she was someone she was not.
It fuelled her anger and sense of injustice.
‘All those nights, Ned… And in between them you were here, living in your mansion, dancing at some ball with the latest diamond of the ton hanging on your arm. Seeking to ally yourself with some earl’s daughter while you played your games in Whitechapel.’
He said nothing.
‘You would have bedded me and cast me aside.’
‘Would I?’
His voice was cold, hard, emotionless. There was something in his eyes when he said it that unnerved her. It made her feel as though she was the one who had got this all wrong. She reminded herself of the shabby leather jacket and boots he had worn—a disguise. She reminded herself of what had passed between them in the darkness of a Whitechapel alleyway while he’d been living a double life here.
‘Now that matters are clear between us there is no need to speak again. Stay away from me, Ned.’
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_8a5c7bfd-060a-5ba6-a78b-13a455fc3ce8)
You first met this heroine, Miss Emma Northcote, in my earlier book, A DARK AND BROODING GENTLEMAN. With Emma and her family suffering such difficult times, I felt she deserved a story of her own. And a worthy hero of her own, too!
I found him in Ned Stratham, a man of the dark streets in London’s East End, seemingly ordinary, but who turns out not to be so ordinary after all. He’s a wolf amongst pampered pedigree dogs—in more ways than one!
So here is Emma and Ned’s story of destiny and love and happiness. I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it.
With warmest wishes.
The Gentleman
Rogue
Margaret McPhee
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Gran & Grandad
and
for Agnes & John
with love
MARGARET McPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.
Contents
Cover (#u05f9bab8-749a-531b-82bf-66d59e4dc589)
Introduction (#u5fec1f03-fa9f-51fe-a6bd-6cd174d01780)
Author Note (#u92efa4e6-ed72-5293-81b9-6e1a747481e1)
Title Page (#u836ed801-2f76-58d7-bced-d2aa5b4dfcb7)
Dedication (#u71453032-1a33-5771-804d-9d70171fbbba)
About the Author (#ueb62a37f-debc-5587-98a7-4f338d801717)
Chapter One (#u053deff9-9345-5919-a7e8-a8c65da467ee)
Chapter Two (#ucc677148-820b-54ae-9bec-95276eb3b156)
Chapter Three (#u61aded70-33ba-5fb2-b9fc-9d92eaa31756)
Chapter Four (#uf1acc4d8-cb6a-50c9-813e-23586b703a74)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_2b134c01-9c32-5a5b-aaf2-cd01fc7753f8)
London—August 1811
Emma de Lisle watched the man covertly from the corner of her eye. He was sitting at his usual table, over at the other side of the room, his back to the wall, a clear view of the door. On the table before him sat his pint of porter, his almost-finished plate of lamb chops and, beside it, his faded leather hat.
He moved the small ivory disc over the back of his hand, just as he always did, the trick making the disc look like it was magically tumbling one way over his fingers and then all the way back, forward and back, forward and back in that slow easy rhythm. He sipped from the tankard and seemed comfortable just sitting there on his own, eating, drinking, watching—a part of the bustle of the taproom of the Red Lion Chop-House, and yet not a part.
‘All right?’ A short brown-toothed man muttered as he passed, giving a sullen nod of his head in the man’s direction.
The man gave a nod in return and the little disc disappeared from his fingers into his jacket. Emma had noticed him before. Just as she noticed him now. Because of the way he ran the small ivory circle over his fingers. Because a slice of one dark-blond eyebrow was missing, a tiny scar cutting in a straight line clear through it, and because the eyes beneath those brows were the colour of a clear summer sky. But most of all, she noticed him because he intrigued her.
The faded brown-leather jacket he wore was cracked with age. Beneath the table she knew he wore scuffed boots that matched the jacket. His hat was leather, too, worn smooth, smoky-brown, dark beside his hair. Clothes that had lasted a lifetime, ageing with the man that wore them. Yet beneath his jacket was a shirt that, in contrast to most others she saw in here, was good quality, white and freshly laundered, and his fingernails were clean and trimmed. He kept to himself and was always on his own. And there was something about him, something of self-containment and strength, of intelligence and power. But all of it understated, quiet, kept beneath the surface. He did not seem to care what others thought of him. Unlike the other men in Whitechapel he did not make any effort to either intimidate or impress. Never tried to make conversation, just kept his thoughts to himself. He was clean-shaven, handsome too in a rugged sort of way, although handsome men should have been the last thing on Emma’s mind.
‘Three mixed-grill platters!’ Tom, the cook, yelled, jolting her from her speculation.
‘Coming, Tom.’ Emma dragged her eyes away from the man, her moment of respite gone. She hurried up to the kitchen hatch, and, using the cloth dangling from the belt around her waist, quickly shifted the scalding plates on to her large wooden tray. In a much-practised move, she hefted the whole tray up to balance it on her shoulder, before bustling across the room to make her delivery.
‘Here we are, gentlemen. Three of our very best mixed-grills.’ She presented each of the three men round the table with an enormous platter.
On the way back to the bar she cleared two tables, took two orders for more beers, and noticed a new party of men arriving to be fed.
‘I’ll see to the new boys, Em,’ Paulette, the Red Lion’s other serving wench, said as she passed Emma.
‘Four pints of ale ready over here, Emma!’ Nancy, the landlady, called, setting the last of the pints down on the bar with a thud that sent the froth of their heads cascading in a creamy waterfall down the outsides of the pewter tankards.
Emma bustled over. Collected all four on to her tray and went to deliver them to the table nearest to the front door.
‘Thanks, darlin’.’ The big black-haired man leered down the cleavage that her low-cut chemise and tight-laced bodice of her scarlet work dress exposed. She disliked this dress and how much it revealed. And she disliked men like him. He grinned, revealing teeth that matched his hair as his hand slid against her hip.
She slapped his fingers away, kept her tone frosty. ‘Keep your hands to yourself.’ Wondered if she would ever get used to this aspect of the job.
He laughed. ‘You’re a feisty one and no mistake. But I like a challenge.’ His hand returned, more insistent this time, grabbing her buttock and squeezing as he hauled her close. ‘Just as much as I like that fancy rich accent of yours. Makes you sound like a real lady it does. And I’ve never had a lady. Come on, darlin’, I’ll make it worth your while.’ The stench of ale and rotten teeth was overpowering. His friends around the table cheered and sniggered.
Emma fixed him with a cynical and steely stare. ‘Hard though it is to believe, I must decline. Now unhand me and let me get on with my work or you will have a bar full of thirsty, hungry men waiting to be served to contend with.’
Black-Hair’s grin broadened. He pulled her to him, wrenching the tray from her hand, and dropping it to clatter on the floor. ‘The other wench can see to them. You can see to me, darlin’.’
Oh, Lord! She realised with a sinking heart and impending dread that he was not going to release her with nothing worse than a slap to the bottom. He was one of those that would pull her down on his lap and start fondling her. Or worse.
‘I will see to nothing. Release me before Nancy sees your game and bars you.’
She was only dimly aware of the shadow of the figure passing at close quarters. She was too busy trying to deal with the black-haired man and extricate herself from his grip. So when the deluge of beer tipped like an almighty cascade of brown rain over the lout’s head she was as shocked as he.
Black-Hair’s grin was wiped. Emma was forgotten in an instant. He released her, giving an almighty roar of a curse.
Emma didn’t need an invitation. Making the most of her opportunity, she grabbed her tray and backed clear of the danger.
Black-Hair was spluttering and wiping beer from screwed-up eyes with great rough tattooed hands. His hair was sodden and glistening with beer. It ran in rivulets down his cheeks and over his chin to drip its tea-coloured stain on to the grubby white of the shirt that covered his barrel chest. The shoulders of his shabby brown-woollen jacket were dark as rain-soaked earth. Even the front of his grey trousers was dark with it. He stank like a brewery.
His small bloodshot eyes swivelled to the perpetrator.
The hubbub of chatter and laughter and clank of glasses had ceased. There was curiosity and a whispered hush as everyone watched.
Emma shifted her gaze to follow that of the black-haired lout and saw the subject of her earlier covert study standing there. Tall, still, calm.
‘Sorry about that. Slip of the hand.’ The words might have offered apology, but the way the man said them suggested otherwise. His voice was the same East End accent as theirs, but low in tone, clear in volume, quietly menacing in its delivery.
‘Oh, you’ll be damn sorry all right!’ Black-Hair’s chair legs scraped loud against the wooden floorboards as he got to his feet. ‘You’ll be pissing yourself, mate, by the time I’ve finished with you.’
The man let his gaze drop pointedly to the dark sodden front of Black-Hair’s trousers, then rose again to meet his eyes. There was a glimmer of hard amusement in them. He raised the eyebrow with the scar running through it, the one that Emma thought made him look like a handsome rogue. ‘Looks like you got there first.’
The crowd sniggered at that.
Black-Hair’s face flushed puce. His little piggy eyes narrowed on the man like an enraged bull. He cracked his knuckles as he made a fist.
By some unspoken command Black-Hair’s four friends got to their feet, making their involvement clear. Any trace of curiosity and amusement fled the room’s atmosphere. It was suddenly sharp-edged with threat.
The hush spread. Every man in the chop-house was riveted on what was unfolding before Emma.
The nape of her neck prickled.
‘Settle down, boys,’ said Nancy. ‘There’s no harm done. Sit down and drink your pints before they get warm.’
But not one of the men moved. They all stayed put, stood where they were, eyeing each other like dogs with their hackles raised.
‘We don’t want no trouble in here. You got a disagreement, you take it outside.’ Nancy tried to come closer, but two men stepped into her path to stop her progress, murmuring advice—two regulars intent on keeping her safe.
No one heeded her anyway. Not the black-haired villain and his cronies. And not the man.
In the background Paulette’s face, like every other, was lit with excited and wary anticipation.
The man’s expression was implacable. He looked almost amused.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ said Black-Hair.
‘And there was me thinking you were offering to buy me a replacement porter,’ said the man.
‘You ain’t gonna be able to hold a pint of porter, let alone drink one, I swear.’
Emma’s blood ran cold. She knew what men like this in Whitechapel did to one another. This was not the first fight she had seen and the prospect of what was coming made her feel queasy.
The man smiled again, a smile that went nowhere near those cool blue eyes. ‘You really want to do this?’ he asked with a hint of disbelief and perplexity.
‘Too late to start grovelling now,’ said Black-Hair.
‘That’s a shame.’
There was not one sound in the whole of the chop-house. The silence hissed. No one moved. All eyes were on the man, Emma’s included. Staring with fascinated horror. Five ruffians against one man. The outcome was certain.
The black-haired man stepped closer to the man, squaring up to him, violent intent spilling from every pore.
She swallowed. Felt a shiver chase over her skin.
The man did not seem to feel the same. He smiled. It was a cold, hard smile. His eyes showed nothing of softness, not one hint of fear. Indeed, he looked as if he welcomed what would come. The blood. The violence. Five men against one. Maybe he really did have a death wish after all.
‘Someone stop them. Please,’ she said, but it was a plea that had no hope of being answered.
An old man pulled her back. ‘Ain’t no one going to stop them now, girl.’
He was right. She knew it and so did every single person in that taproom.
The black-haired brute cracked his knuckles and stretched his massive bull neck, ready to dispense punishment.
Emma held her breath. Her fingers were balled, her nails cutting into her palms.
The man’s movement was so fast and unexpected. One minute he was standing there. The next, he had landed a head butt against the lout’s nose. There was a sickening crunch. And blood. A lot of blood. Black-Hair doubled over as if bending in to meet the man’s knee that hit his face. The speed and suddenness of it shocked her. It shocked the men in there, too. She could tell by the look on their faces as they watched the black-haired giant go down. The ruffian was blinking and gasping with the shock of it as he lay there.
Emma watched in disbelief. Every muscle in her body tensed with shock. She held her breath for what would happen next.
‘Too late to start grovelling,’ the man said.
Leaning one hand on the floor, Black-Hair spat a bloody globule to land on the toe of the man’s boot and reached for a nearby chair.
‘But if you insist...’ The man stepped closer to Black-Hair, his bloodied boot treading on the giant’s splayed fingers, his hand catching hold of the villain’s outstretched hand as if he meant to help him to his feet. But it was not help he offered. He gave the wrist a short sharp twist, the resulting crack of which made Emma and the rest of the audience wince.
Black-Hair’s face went ashen. He made not one sound, just fainted into a crumpled heap and did not move.
In the stunned amazement that followed no one else moved either. There was not a sound.
‘He might need a little help in holding his porter,’ said the man to Black-Hair’s friends.
‘You bastard!’ One of them spat the curse.
The man smiled again. And this time Emma was prepared.
The tough charged with fists at the ready.
The man’s forehead shattered the villain’s cheekbone while his foot hooked around his ankle and felled him. When the rat tried to get up the man kicked his feet from under him. This time Black-Hair’s friend stayed where he was.
The other three men exchanged shifty glances amongst themselves, then began to advance. One slipped a long wicked blade that winked in the candlelight.
‘Really?’ asked the man.
The sly-faced man came in, feigned attack, drew back. Came in close again, circling the man.
‘Too scared?’ asked the man.
A curl of lip and a slash of the blade was his opponent’s only response.
But the man kicked him between the legs and there was an ear-piercing scream. Emma had never heard a man scream before. It made the blood in her veins turn to ice. She watched the knife clatter to the floor forgotten while the sly-faced villain dropped like a stone, clutching himself and gasping.
The man looked at the two remaining thugs.
For a tiny moment they gaped at him. Then they turned tail and ran, pelting out of the chop-house like hares before a hound.
The man stood there and watched them go.
But Emma was not looking at the fleeing villains. Rather, she was looking at the man. She could not take her eyes off him. There was what looked like the beginning of a bruise on his forehead. The snow-white of his shirt was speckled scarlet with blood from Black-Hair’s nose. His dark neckcloth was askew. He was not even out of breath. He just stood there calm and cool and unperturbed.
The slamming of the front door echoed in the silence.
No one spoke. No one moved. No one save the man.
He smoothed the dishevelment from his hair, straightened his neckcloth and walked through the pathway that cleared through the crowd before him.
They watched him with respect. They watched him with awe. Soft murmured voices.
Fists and feet were what gained a man respect round here. Standing up for himself and what he believed in. Physicality ruled. The strongest, the toughest, the most dangerous. And the man had just proved himself all three.
Some regulars from the crowd half dragged, half carried the injured away.
The man returned to his table, but he did not sit down. He finished the porter in one gulp and left more coins beside the empty tankard than were needed for payment. He lifted his hat and then his eyes finally met Emma’s across the taproom.
Within her chest her heart was still banging hard against her ribs. Through her veins her blood was still rushing with a shocked fury.
He gave her a nod of acknowledgement and then turned away and walked out of the place, oblivious to the entire crowd of customers standing there slack-jawed and staring at him.
Emma stared just as much as all the others, watching him leave. And even when the door had closed behind him she still stood there looking, as if she could see right through it to follow him. Six months in Whitechapel and she had never seen a man as strong, as ruthless or as invincible.
‘Don’t think he’ll be having any trouble for a while,’ said Nancy, who was standing, hands on hips, bar cloth in hand, watching.
‘Who is he?’ Emma asked in soft-voiced amazement.
‘Goes by the name of Ned Stratham. Or so he says.’
Emma opened her mouth to ask more, but Nancy had already turned her attention away, raising her voice loud and harsh as she called out to the taproom audience, ‘Show’s over, folks. Get back to your tables before your chops grow cold and your ale grows warm.’
Emma’s gaze returned to linger on the front door and her thoughts to the man who had just exited through it.
Ned Stratham.
A fight seemingly over a pint of spilled porter. And yet Emma was not fooled, even if all the others were.
Ned Stratham did not know anything about her other than she served him his dinner and porter. He was a man who had barely seemed to notice her in the months he had been coming here. A man who kept to himself and quietly watched what unfolded around him without getting involved. Until tonight.
It had not been fighting in any sense that a gentleman would recognise, it had been raw and shocking and, if she were honest, much more effective. It followed no rules. It had not been polite or genteel, nor, on the surface of it, honourable or chivalric.
‘Backlog of chops in the kitchen, Emma,’ Nancy’s voice interrupted.
Emma nodded. ‘I am just coming.’
Seemingly a taproom brawl over a clumsy accident and yet... In her mind she saw again that blue gaze on hers, so piercing and perceptive.
‘Emma!’ Nancy yelled again. ‘You want it in writing?’
Lifting her tray, Emma headed for the kitchen. Ned Stratham’s table had been nowhere near Black-Hair’s and any man who could tumble a disc over his knuckles had no problems with balance.
And she knew that, despite his method, what Ned Stratham had just done was chivalric in every sense of the word. She knew that what he had just done was save her from Black-Hair.
* * *
Ned Stratham saw the woman again a week later on his visit to the Red Lion. His meal had been delivered by the other serving wench, but it was Emma who came to collect his cleared plate and empty tankard.
Her dark hair was clean and pinned up, her pale olive skin clear and smooth, unmarked by pox scars. Her teeth were white and straight. She was too beautiful for Whitechapel. Too well-spoken, too. It made her stand out. It made her a target for men like the dark-haired chancer last week. He already knew that she wore no wedding band upon her finger. No husband. Unprotected in an area of London where it was dangerous for any woman, let alone one like her, to be so.
‘Do you wish another pint of porter, sir?’ Her voice was clear, her accent refined and out of place on this side of town.
‘Thank you.’ He watched in silence as she shifted his plate, cutlery and tankard to sit on her empty wooden tray. But once the table was cleared she did not hurry off as usual. Instead she hesitated, lingering there with the tray in her hands.
‘I did not get a chance to thank you, last week.’ Her eyes were a dark-brown velvet. Warm eyes, he thought as he looked into them. Beautiful eyes.
‘For what?’ he asked.
‘Spilling your drink.’
‘A clumsy accident.’
‘Of course it was.’ She smiled in a way that told him that she understood exactly what he had done. The hint of a dimple showed in the corner of her mouth.
It made him smile, too.
She was always polite and professional, and friendly with it, as if she genuinely liked people. But unlike most other serving wenches he had never seen her flirt with any man, even though that would have earned her more tips. She did her job with a capable efficiency and sense of purpose that he liked.
He turned his gaze to focus on the tumble of the small pale-ivory token across his knuckles. No matter how beautiful she was, there was a part of him that wanted her to just walk away as she had done all the other times, to attend to other punters on other tables. There were things on his mind more important than beautiful women. Things he had spent a lifetime chasing. Things upon which he had to stay focused to bring to fruition. He did not want distractions, not of any kind.
And the truth was he had not wanted to intervene last week, but he could not have just sat there and turned a blind eye while a woman was forced against her will, whatever the level of it. He had known men like the black-haired tough all his life. What started out as ‘fun’ soon escalated to something else.
He watched the rhythmic smooth tumble of the token over the fingers of his right hand. It was a movement so long practised as to no longer be a trick but a reflex, a part of himself.
‘I will fetch your porter.’ He didn’t look up at her but he knew she was still smiling. He could hear it in her voice.
Ned said nothing more. Just kept his focus on the token, effectively dismissing her.
He heard her turn and walk away. Shifted his eyes momentarily to her retreating figure, to the soft sway of her hips. The smallest of glances; no risk to the ripple of his fingers that was as instinctive and easy to him as breathing. And yet, in that moment, for the first time in years, he fluffed the move like a novice. The token tipped from his hand, straight off the table, landing edge up on the floorboards to roll away with speed.
His heart skipped a beat. He was already on his feet and following, but the token was way in front and heading for the crowded bar. But Emma, as he’d heard her called, reached a foot forward and, with the toe of her boot, gently stopped it, balanced the tray on her hip and retrieved it from the floor.
Ned watched as she rubbed the token against the bodice of her dress, dusting off the dirt that marred its smooth pale surface. Her gaze moved over the worn ivory, studying it.
She turned to him as he reached her.
Their eyes held for a tiny second before she passed the token to him.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘For what? I trust the inadvertent and clumsy tread of my boot did your property no harm.’ Her eyes held his.
He couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
And so did she.
Her eyes watched the token as he slipped it safely inside his jacket. ‘What is it?’
‘My lucky charm.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Without fail.’
Her eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but she softened the cynicism with a smile that did things to him that no other woman’s smile ever had. It kept him standing here, talking, when he should have walked away.
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘A lucky charm that works without fail...?’ She raised her eyebrows again, teasingly this time. ‘Perhaps I should ask to borrow it.’
‘Are you in need of good luck?’
‘Is not everyone?’
‘Emma!’ Nancy shouted from the bar. ‘Six pints of porter here!’
‘Ned Stratham.’ He did not smile, but offered his hand for a handshake.
‘Emma de Lisle.’
Her fingers were feminine and slender within his own. Her skin cool and smooth, even within the warmth of the taproom. The touch of their bare hands sparked physical awareness between them. He knew she felt it, too, from the slight blush on her cheeks and the way she released his hand.
‘Emma!’ Nancy, the landlady, screeched like a banshee. ‘Get over here, girl!’
Emma glanced over her shoulder at the bar. ‘Coming, Nancy!
‘No rest for the wicked,’ she said, and with a smile she was gone.
Ned resumed his seat, but his eyes watched her cross the room. The deep red of the tavern dress complimented the darkness of her hair and was laced tight to her body so that he could see the narrowness of her waist and the flare of her hips and the way the material sat against her buttocks. There was a vitality about her, an intelligence, a level of confidence in herself not normally seen round here.
He watched her collect the tankards from the bar and distribute them to various tables, taking her time en route to him. His was the last tankard on the tray.
‘What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?’ he asked as she set the porter down before him.
Her eyes met his again. And in them was that same smile. ‘Working,’ she said.
This time she didn’t linger. Just moved on, to clear tables and take new orders and fetch more platters of chops.
He leaned back against the wooden panelling on the wall and slowly drank his porter. The drift of pipe smoke was in the air. He breathed it in along with the smell of char-grilled chops and hoppy ale. Soaking up the atmosphere of the place, the familiarity and the ease, he watched Emma de Lisle.
He had the feeling she wouldn’t be working here in the Red Lion for too long. She was a woman who was going places, or had been to them. Anyone who met her knew it. He wondered again, as he had wondered many times before, what her story was.
He watched how efficiently she worked, with that air of purpose and energy; the way she could share a smile or a joke with the punters without it delaying her work—only for him had she done that. The punters liked her and he could see why.
She didn’t look at him again, not in all the time it took him to sup his drink.
The bells of St Olave’s in the distance chimed eleven. Nancy called last orders.
Ned’s time here for tonight was over. He drained the tankard. Left enough coins on the table to pay for his meal and a generous tip for Emma de Lisle, before lifting his hat and making his way across the room to the front door.
His focus flicked one last time to where Emma was delivering meat-laden platters to a table of four.
She glanced over at him, her eyes meeting his for a tiny shared moment, and flashed her wonderful smile at him, before getting on with the job in hand.
He placed his hat on his head and walked out of the Red Lion Chop-House into the darkness of the alleyway.
I trust the inadvertent and clumsy tread of my boot did your property no harm. He smiled. Emma de Lisle was certainly one hell of a woman. A man might almost be tempted to stay here for a woman like her. Almost.
He smiled one last time, then set off through the maze of streets he knew so well. As he crossed the town, moving from one parish to the next, he shifted his mind to what lay ahead for tomorrow, focusing, running through the details.
The night air was cool and his face grim as he struck a steady pace all the way home to Mayfair.
Chapter Two (#ulink_637eea1e-d2b9-5b46-962d-f8c859d7f971)
‘Is that you, Emma?’ her father called at the sound of her key scraping in the lock. She could hear the wariness in his voice.
She unlocked the door and let herself into the two small rooms that they rented.
‘I brought you a special supper—pork chops.’
‘Pork?’ He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Not usual for there to be any pork left.’
There had not been. Pork was expensive and the choicest chop they offered. It was also her father’s favourite, which was why Emma had paid for them out of her own pocket, largely with the generous tip Ned Stratham had left, the rest covered by Nancy’s discount. ‘Happy Birthday, Papa.’ She dropped a kiss to his cheek as he drew her close and gave her a hug.
‘It is my birthday? I lose track of time these days.’ He sat down in one of the spindly chairs at the bare table in the corner of the room.
‘That is what happens with age,’ Emma teased him. But she knew it was not age that made him forget, but the fact that all the days merged together when one just worked all the time.
She hung her cloak on the back of the door, then set a place at the little table, unwrapped the lidded plate from its cloth and finally produced an earthenware bottle. ‘And as a treat, one of the finest of the Red Lion’s porters.’
‘You spoil me, Emma,’ he chided, but he smiled. ‘You are not having anything?’
‘I ate earlier, in the Red Lion. And you know I cannot abide the taste of beer.’
‘For which I am profoundly thankful. Bad enough my daughter chooses to work in a common tavern, but that she would start drinking the wares...’ He gave an exaggerated shudder.
‘It is a chop-house, not a tavern as I have told you a hundred times.’ She smiled. Although the distinction made little difference in reality, it made her father feel better. But he would not feel better were he to see the Red Lion’s clientele and her best customers. She wondered what he would make of a man like Ned Stratham. Or what he would say had he witnessed the manner in which Ned had bested five men to defend her.
Her father smiled, too. ‘And I suppose I should be heartily grateful for that.’
‘You know the tips from the chop-house pay very well indeed, much better than for any milliner or shop girl. And it will not be for ever.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘No perhaps about it, Papa,’ she said sternly. ‘Our savings begin to grow. And I have made an application for a position in Clerkenwell. It is not Mayfair, but it is heading in the right direction.’
‘Managing a chop-house.’
Managing a tavern, but she did not tell him that. ‘One step at a time, on a journey that will eventually lead us back to our own world.’
He smiled. ‘My dear girl, have I told you that you are stubborn as a mastiff?’
‘Once or twice. I wonder where I might have acquired such a trait? I do not recall my dear mama having such a defect.’
He chuckled. ‘Indeed, I own the blame. The apple does not fall so very far from the tree.’ He gently patted her hand. ‘Come, take a seat. You must be tired after working all evening.’
Emma dropped into the seat opposite. ‘Not so tired at all.’ And although her feet were aching it was the truth. She thought of Ned Stratham and the interaction that had passed between them earlier that evening and smiled. He was a man without an inch of softness in him. Probably more dangerous than any of the other men that came to the chop-house, and the men that came to the Red Lion were not those anyone would wish to meet alone on a dark night. Definitely more dangerous, she corrected, remembering precisely what he had done to Black-Hair and his cronies. And yet there was something about him, something that marked him as different. Pushing the thought away, she focused her attention on her father.
‘How were the docks today?’
‘The same as they ever are. The good news is that I managed to get an extra shift for tomorrow.’
‘Again?’ The fatigue in his face worried her. ‘Working a double shift is too much for you.’ Working a single shift in a manual job in the London Docks’ warehouses was too much for a man who had been raised and lived as a gentleman all his life.
‘What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ he said. ‘Do not start with your scolding, please, Emma.’
She sighed and gave a small smile. It was his birthday and she wanted what was left of it to be nice for him. There would be other days to raise the issue of his working double shifts. ‘Very well.’
‘Fetch your cup. I shall propose a toast.’
She did as he bid.
He poured a dribble of porter into her cup. Raised his own tankard in the air. ‘God has granted me another year and I am happy and thankful for it.’ But there was a shadow of sadness in his eyes and she knew what he was thinking of. ‘To absent loved ones,’ he said. ‘Wherever Kit is. Whatever he is doing. God keep him safe and bring him home to us.’
‘To absent loved ones,’ she echoed and tried to suppress the complicated swirl of emotions she felt whenever Kit’s name was mentioned.
They clunked the cups together and drank down the porter. Its bitterness made her shudder. Once it had been champagne in the finest of cut-crystal glasses with which he made his birthday toast and the sweetest of lemonades, extravagantly chilled with ice. Once their lives had been very different from the ones they lived here.
As if sensing her thought, he reached his hand to hers and gave it a squeeze. Her eyes met his, sombre for a moment with shared dark memories, before she locked the memories away in the place they belonged. Neither spoke of them. It was not their way. She forced a smile to her face. ‘You should eat those pork chops before they grow cold.’
‘With pleasure, my dear girl.’ Her father smiled in return and tucked into the meal with relish.
* * *
Across town the next day, within the dining room of a mansion house in Cavendish Square, a very distinguished luncheon was taking place.
The fireplace was black marble, carved and elaborate. The walls were red, lined with ornate paintings of places in Scotland and overseas Ned had never been. Above the table hung an enormous chandelier from which a thousand crystal drops danced and shimmered in the slight breeze from the opened window. There were two windows in the room, both large, bowed in style, both framed with long heavy red damask curtains with fringed swags and tails. Both had blinds that were cream in colour and pulled high.
Out in the street beyond, the sky was bright with the golden light of a summer’s afternoon. It glinted on the silver service and crystal of the glasses on the polished mahogany table stretched out like a long banqueting table from kings of old. Enough spaces to seat eighteen. But there were only five men dining from the sumptuous feast. Seated in the position of the principal guest was the government minister for trade. On his left was the minister’s secretary. Directly opposite the minister was the biggest mill owner in the north and one away was a shipping magnate whose line was chief to service the West Indies and the Americas. A powerful collection of men, and seated at their heart, in the position of host, was Ned Stratham.
He fed them the best of fine foods and rich sauces prepared by a chef who had once been employed by the Prince Regent. He ensured that his butler and footmen were well trained enough to keep the men’s glasses flowing with expensive French wines. A different one suited for each dish.
Ned knew how to play the game. He knew what was necessary for success in business and influence over policy.
‘I can make no promises,’ said the minister.
‘I’m not asking you to,’ replied Ned.
‘And the source of the figures you quoted?’
‘Sound.’
‘You really think it would work?’
Ned gave a nod.
‘You would be taking as much a risk as us, maybe even more so as it is your money on the line.’
‘Maximum gain comes from maximum venture.’
‘If the vote were to go against us and the bill fail...’
‘You would survive it.’
‘But would you?’ the minister asked.
‘That’s not your problem.’ Ned held his gaze while the seconds stretched, until eventually the minister for trade nodded.
‘I will set the necessary mechanisms in motion tomorrow.’
‘Then, we’re agreed.’ Ned held out his hand for a handshake.
The minister swallowed. A shadow of unease shifted through his shrewd eyes. It was one thing to say the words, but another to shake on it. A handshake for men like him placed their honour on the line.
There was a silence that was awkward for them all save Ned. He took a sort of wry pleasure in such moments; using gentlemen’s discomfort of him and his dubious breeding to his own ends.
The other three looked nervous, waited to see what the minister would do.
Ned kept his gaze on the other man’s. Kept his hand extended. Both were steady.
The minister smiled and finally shook Ned’s hand. ‘You have convinced me, sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
* * *
It was after six by the time the luncheon finally ended and four of the most influential men in the country left Cavendish Square.
The butler and two footmen returned to the dining room, standing with their backs against the wall. Faces straight ahead, eyes focused on some distant point. Ned marvelled that gentlemen discussed the details of confidential business before servants, as if they were not men, as if they could not see or hear what was going on. Ned knew better. He never made the same mistake.
He sat alone at the table, the wine glass still half-full in his hand. The sunlight which streamed in through the windows lit the port within a deep ruby-red and made the monogram engraved on the glass’s surface sparkle—S for Stratham.
The minister had squirmed, but in the end the deal had been done. It would be good for much more than Ned. He felt a sense of grim satisfaction.
The butler cleared his throat and came to hover by his elbow. ‘More port, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Clarkson.’ Ned wondered what Clarkson would do if he were to ask for a porter. But gentlemen in Mayfair did not drink porter. Not in any of their fancy rich establishments. Not even in their own homes. And Ned must keep up the guise of a gentleman.
But porter made him think of Whitechapel, and the Red Lion...and Emma de Lisle. With those perceptive dark eyes, and that vitality and warm, joyful confidence that emanated from her.
He glanced out of the window, at the sunlight and the carriage that trundled past, and felt the waft of cool air break through the cigar smoke that lingered like a mist within the dining room.
He had other business to attend to. But it didn’t have to happen tonight.
Ned set the fine crystal goblet down upon the table. Got to his feet.
The butler appeared by his side again.
‘I’m going out, Clarkson.’
‘Very good, sir. Shall I arrange for the carriage?’
‘No carriage.’ Not for where Ned was going. ‘It’s a fine evening. I’ll walk.’
Ned went to change into his old leather jacket and boots.
* * *
The heat from the kitchen mixed with that that had built up in the taproom through the summer’s day to make the air of the Red Lion stifling. The chop-house’s windows and doors were all open, but it made little difference.
Nancy had taken advantage of the heatwave and had her staff carry some tables out on to the street, so that the chop-house’s customers could sit out there in the cool shade and drink their beer.
‘Three pitchers of ale!’ Nancy yelled and Emma hurried to answer.
Emma could feel the sweat dripping down her back and between her breasts. Never had a shift seemed so long. Her legs were aching and her feet felt like they were on fire. She lifted the tray, tried to blow a hair away from where it had escaped her pins to dangle in her eye and made her way across the taproom, hurrying out of the doorway, just as Ned Stratham was coming in.
She collided with him, almost dropping the tray. It was Ned who steadied it, stopping the slide of the pitchers and the ensuing disaster.
‘Ned Stratham,’ she said, and inside her stomach felt like a flock of starlings taking off from the fields as one to swoop across a sunset sky. ‘Two nights on the trot? This is a first.’ Sometimes weeks passed between his visits.
Those blue, blue eyes met hers and held for a second too long. ‘You’ve been counting.’
‘As if I would have time to be counting.’
She saw the hint of amusement in his eyes as he moved aside and let her pass through.
Emma did not look back. Just got on with serving the tableloads of customers that were outside in the alley. But all the while she was conscious that he was inside. Too conscious. She smiled wryly to herself and got on with clearing the outside tables before returning to the taproom.
There was not a seat to be had inside. Ned was leaning against the bar, comfortable, already sipping a porter. He looked unconcerned by the crowd, by the heat, by not having a chair or table.
‘Six porters, two small beers and a stout, Emma!’ Paulette shouted and thumped the last of the tankards down on the wooden counter beside Ned.
Emma continued her quick pace to the bar and, while unloading her tray, slid a glance in Ned Stratham’s direction.
‘Busy in here tonight,’ he observed.
‘There’s a schooner in at the docks. We’ve had the full crew in since lunchtime.’
‘Good business.’
‘But bad timing. Tom did not come in today. Nancy is in the kitchen, cooking in his place.’ She started loading up the fresh porters while she spoke.
‘Bet that’s made her all sweetness and light.’
‘You know her so well.’
With impeccable timing, Nancy’s face, beet-red with heat and running with sweat, appeared at the hatch as she thumped three plates down. ‘Three mixed grills!’ She flicked a crabbed gaze in Emma’s direction.
‘Where’s me bleedin’ platter?’ someone shouted from the other side of the room.
‘Any more of your lip and it’ll be up your bleedin’ backside,’ Nancy snapped in reply and riveted the man with a look that would have blistered paint on a door.
Emma’s and Ned’s eyes met in shared silent amusement. ‘Enjoy your porter,’ she said and then she was off, collecting the platters on her way to deliver the porters.
‘Come on, wench! My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut! How long’s a fellow got to wait in this place for a drink?’ a punter shouted from the table in the middle of the floor.
‘We’re working as fast as we can!’ screeched a flustered Paulette from behind the bar, her face scarlet and sweaty.
‘Five porters, gentlemen.’ Emma’s voice, although quiet in comparison to the rowdy conversation, shouts and laughter in the place, stood out because she sounded like a lady. She worked quickly and efficiently, setting a tankard on the table before each man before moving on to deliver the rest of the drinks from her tray.
Ned watched her bustle across the room to the big table in the corner where the crew of the schooner looked three sheets past a sail. He felt himself stiffen as one of them copped a sly grope as she leaned across the table with a drink.
Her movement was subtle and slight, but very effective. The contents of the tankard ended up in the worm’s lap.
The sailor gave a yelp, followed by a curse, staggering to his feet and staring down at the sodden stain rapidly spreading over his trousers. ‘Look what the hell you’ve done!’
His crewmates were all laughing.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said without the slightest bit of sincerity. ‘I will fetch you another porter. Let us just hope it does not go the same way as the first one.’ And there was the steely hint of warning in her eye as she said it.
Grumbling, the man sat down.
‘I wonder where you got that idea,’ Ned Stratham said when she returned to the bar. He kept his focus on the token tumbling over his fingers.
‘I wonder,’ she said.
He moved his gaze to her. The strands of her hair had escaped its pins to coil like damp ebony ivy against the golden skin of her neck. The swell of her breasts looked in danger of escaping the red bodice. He could see the rise and fall of it with her every breath. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat and her eyes, sparkling black as cut jet, held his. They shared a smile before she hurried off across the room again. She was so vivid and vital and alive that the desire he normally held in check surged through him.
Ned wasn’t the only one, judging by the way the sailors were looking at her. After months away at sea most men had two things on their mind—drink and women. They were tanked up on the first and were now seeking the second.
‘What you doing later, darlin’? Me and you, we could step out for a little drink.’
‘Hands off, Wrighty, she’s coming home with me, ain’t that right, Emma darling?’ another said.
‘Neither is possible, I’m afraid, gentlemen. I’m meeting my betrothed,’ she said without missing a beat while clearing empties from their table.
‘Shame.’
The other looked less than convinced. His gaze meandered with greed and lust over the length of her body as she returned to the bar. He wasn’t alone. A man would have had to have water in his veins not to want her. And what was flowing in the veins of the sailors was far from water.
One drink, Ned had told himself. And yet he couldn’t walk away now. Not even had he wanted to. He ordered another porter from Paulette.
* * *
It was an hour before the bustle waned and another two before Paulette rang the bell for last orders.
Half an hour later and what remained of the Red Lion’s clientele had emptied into the alleyway outside.
Emma leaned against the edge of a table, taking the weight off her feet, while fastening her cloak in place. The taproom was empty. The tables had been wiped down, the stools upturned on the tabletops. The floor had been swept ready to be mopped the next day. Ned Stratham had gone some time while she had been in the kitchen helping Nancy scrape the grills clean. Gone without saying goodbye, she thought, and then realised how stupid that thought was. He was just a customer like all the rest. And if she had any sense in her head she should be glad of it.
‘Ned Stratham’s got his eye on you, Em,’ Paulette teased with a sly face.
‘Nonsense.’ Emma concentrated on fastening her cloak and hoped the dimness of the candlelight hid her blush.
‘I saw the way he was watching you. Asking questions, too.’
‘Too much time on his hands,’ said Emma dismissively.
Paulette smirked. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘What a night!’ Nancy swept in from the kitchen. ‘Tom better show tomorrow or there’ll be trouble.’
Nancy unlocked the front door to let Emma and Paulette leave. ‘Watch yourself, girls, we got a few stragglers.’
Emma gave a nod as she and Paulette stepped out into the alleyway.
The last of the evening light had long since faded to an inky dark blue. The day’s heat had cooled. Behind them the kitchen door closed with a slam. A lone sailor stood waiting before them.
Emma met Paulette’s eyes.
‘It’s all right, Em. George said he’d wait for me. He’s the boatswain off the ship that’s in,’ explained Paulette.
Emma lowered her voice. ‘Paulette—’
‘I know what I’m doing, honest, Em. I’ll be all right,’ Paulette whispered and walked off down the alleyway with the boatswain.
Behind her Emma heard Nancy slide the big bolts into place across the door, locking her out into the night. The only light in the darkness was that from the high-up kitchen window.
Emma turned to head home, in the opposite direction to the one that Paulette and her beau had taken, just as two men stepped into the mouth of the alley ahead.
Chapter Three (#ulink_8ab85e92-4e23-5344-9ad7-52958a2a51de)
‘Emma, darlin’, you’ve been telling us porkies.’ Through the flicker of the kitchen lamps she recognised the sailor who had asked her to step out with him for a drink. He was unshaven and the stench of beer from him reached across the distance between them. His gaze was not on her face, but lower, leering at the pale skin of her exposed décolletage. Her heart began to thud. Fear snaked through her blood, but she showed nothing of it. Instead, she eyed the men with disdain and pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
‘Good job we came back for you, since there’s no sign of your “betrothed.” Maybe now we can get to know each other a bit better.’
‘I do not think so, gentlemen.’
‘Oh, she don’t think so, Wrighty. Let us convince you, darlin’.’ They gave a laugh and started to walk towards her.
Emma’s hand slid into the pocket of her cloak, just as Ned Stratham stepped out of the shadows by her side.
She smothered the gasp.
His face was expressionless, but his eyes were cold and dangerous as sharp steel. He looked at the men. Just a look. But it was enough to stop them in their tracks.
The sailor who had done the talking stared, and swallowed, then held up his hands in submission. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t realise...’
‘You do now,’ said Ned in a voice that for all its quiet volume was filled with threat, and never shifting his hard gaze for an instant.
‘All right, no offence intended.’ The sailors backed away. ‘Thought she was spinning a line about the betrothed thing. She’s yours. We’re already gone.’
Ned watched them until they disappeared and their footsteps faded into the distance out on to St Catherine’s Lane. Only then did he look at Emma.
In the faint flickering light from the kitchen window, his eyes looked almost as dark as hers, turned from sky-blue to midnight. He had a face that was daunted by nothing. It would have been tough on any other man. On him it was handsome. Firm determined lips. A strong masculine nose with a tiny bump upon its ridge. His rogue eyebrow enough to take a woman’s breath away. Her heart rate kicked faster as her gaze lingered momentarily on it before returning to his eyes.
‘What are you doing here, Ned?’ she asked in wary softness.
‘Taking the air.’
They looked at one another.
She’s yours. The echo of the sailor’s words seemed to whisper between them, making her cheeks warm.
‘I didn’t think you’d be fool enough to walk home alone in the dark through these streets.’
‘Normally I do not. Tom lives in the next street up from mine. He usually sees me home safe.’
‘Tom’s not here.’
‘Which is why I borrowed one of Nancy’s knives.’ She slid the knife from her pocket and held it between them so that the blade glinted in the moonlight.
‘It wouldn’t have stopped them.’
‘Maybe not. But it would have done a very great deal of damage, I assure you.’
The silence hissed between them.
‘You want to take your chances with the knife? Or you could accept my offer to see you home safe.’
She swallowed, knowing what he was offering and feeling her stomach turn tumbles within. ‘As long as you understand that it is just seeing me safely home.’ She met his gaze, held it with mock confidence.
‘Are you suggesting that I’m not a gentleman?’ His voice was all stony seriousness, but he raised the rogue eyebrow.
‘On the contrary, I am sure you are the perfect gentleman.’
‘Maybe not perfect.’
She smiled at that, relaxing a little now that the shock of seeing him there had subsided, and returned the knife blade to its dishcloth scabbard within the pocket of her cloak.
‘We should get going,’ he said. And together they began to walk down the alleyway.
Their footsteps were soft and harmonious, the slower, heavier thud of his boots in time with the lighter step of her own.
They walked on, out on to St Catherine’s Lane. Walked along in silence.
‘You knew those sailors would be waiting for me, didn’t you?’
‘Did I?’
‘You do not fool me, Ned Stratham.’
‘It’s not my intention to fool anyone.’
She scrutinised him, before asking the question that she’d been longing to ask since the first night he had walked into the Red Lion. ‘Who are you?’
‘Just a man from Whitechapel.’
‘And yet...the shirt beneath your jacket looks like it came from Mayfair. And is tailored to fit you perfectly. Most unusual on a man from Whitechapel.’ He was probably a crook. A gang boss. A tough. How else did a man like him get the money for such a shirt? Asking him now, when they were alone, in the dark of the night, was probably not the wisest thing she had ever done, but the question was out before she could think better of it. Besides, if she did not ask him now, she doubted she would get another chance. She ignored the faster patter of her heart and held his eyes, daring him to tell her something of the truth.
‘You’ve been eyeing up my shirt.’
She gave a laugh and shook her head. ‘I could not miss it. Nor could half the chop-house. You have had your jacket off all evening.’
‘But half the chop-house would not have recognised a Mayfair shirt.’ Half in jest, half serious.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she held his gaze boldly, as if he were not treading so close to forbidden ground, brazening it out. ‘So you admit it is from Mayfair?’
‘From Greaves and Worcester.’
‘How does a Whitechapel man come to be wearing a shirt from one of the most expensive shirt-makers in London?’
‘How is a woman from a Whitechapel chop-house familiar with the said wares and prices?’
She smiled, but said nothing, on the back foot now that he was the one asking questions she did not want to answer.
‘What’s your story, Emma?’
‘Long and uninteresting.’
‘For a woman like you, in a place like this?’ He arched the rogue eyebrow with scepticism.
She held her silence, wanting to know more of him, but not at the cost of revealing too much of herself.
‘Playing your cards close to your chest?’ he asked.
‘It is the best way, I have found.’
He smiled at that. ‘A woman after my own heart.’
They kept on walking, their footsteps loud in the silence.
He met her eyes. ‘I heard tell you once worked in Mayfair.’ It was the story she had put about.
‘Cards and chest, even for unspoken questions,’ she said.
Ned laughed.
And she smiled.
‘I worked as a lady’s maid.’ She kept her eyes front facing. If he had not already heard it from the others in the Red Lion, he soon would. It was the only reasonable way to explain away her voice and manners; many ladies’ maids aped their mistresses. And it was not, strictly speaking, a lie, she told herself for the hundredth time. She had learned and worked in the job of a lady’s maid, just as she had shadow-studied the role of every female servant from scullery maid to housekeeper; one had to have an understanding of how a household worked from the bottom up to properly run it.
‘That explains much. What happened?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Ned Stratham.’
‘You keep a lot of secrets, Emma de Lisle.’
Their gazes held for a moment too long, in challenge, and something else, too. Until he smiled his submission and looked ahead once more.
She breathed her relief.
A group of men were staggering along the other side of the Minories Road, making their way home from the King’s Head. Their voices were loud and boisterous, their gait uneven. They shouted insults and belched at one another. One of them stopped to relieve his bladder against a lamp post.
She averted her eyes from them, met Ned’s gaze and knew he was thinking about the knife and how it would have fared against six men.
‘It would still have given them pause for thought,’ she said in her defence.
Ned said nothing.
But for all of her assertions and the weight of the kitchen knife within her cloak right at this moment in time she was very glad of Ned Stratham’s company.
The men did not shout the bawdy comments they would have had it been Tom by her side. They said nothing, just quietly watched them pass and stayed on their own side of the road.
Neither of them spoke. Just walking together at the same steady pace up Minories. Until the drunkards were long in the distance. Until they turned right into the dismal narrow street in which she and her father lodged. There were no street lamps, only the low silvery light of the moon to guide their steps over the potholed surface.
Halfway along the street she slowed and came to a halt outside the doorway of a shabby boarding house.
‘This is it. My home.’
He glanced at the building, then returned his eyes to her.
They looked at one another through the darkness.
‘Thank you for walking me home, Ned.’
‘It was the least I could do for my betrothed,’ he said with his usual straight expression, but there was the hint of a smile in his eyes.
She smiled and shook her head, aware he was teasing her, but her cheeks blushing at what she had let the sailors in the alleyway think. ‘I should have set them straight.’
‘And end our betrothal so suddenly?’
‘Would it break your heart?’
‘Most certainly.’
The teasing faded away. And with it something of the safety barrier between them.
His eyes locked hers, so that she could not look away even if she had wanted to. A sensual tension whispered between them. Attraction. Desire. Forbidden liaisons. She could feel the flutter of butterflies in her stomach, feel a heat in her thighs. In the silence of the surrounding night the thud of her heart sounded too loud in her ears. Her skin tingled with nervous anticipation.
She glanced up to the window on the second floor where the light of a single candle showed faintly through the thin curtain. ‘My father waits up for me. I should go.’
‘You should.’
But she made no move to leave. And neither did he.
He looked at her in a way that made every sensible thought flee her head. He looked at her in a way that made her feel almost breathless.
Ned stepped towards her, closed the distance between them until they were standing toe to toe, until she could feel the brush of his thighs against hers.
‘I thought you said you were the perfect gentleman?’
‘You said that, not me.’ His eyes traced her face, lingering over her lips, so that she knew he meant to kiss her. And God knew what living this life in Whitechapel had done to her because in that moment she wanted him to. Very much.
Desire vibrated between them. Where his thighs touched to hers the skin scalded. In the moonlight his eyes looked dark, smouldering, intense. She knew that he wanted her. Had been around Whitechapel long enough to know the games men and women played.
Emma’s breath sounded too loud and ragged.
Their gazes held locked.
The tension stretched until she did not think she could bear it a second longer.
He slid his strong arms around her waist, moving slowly, giving her every chance to step away or tell him nay. But she did neither. Only placed her palms to rest tentatively against the leather breast of his jacket.
He lowered his face towards her.
She tilted her mouth to meet his.
And then his lips took hers and he kissed her.
He kissed her and his kiss was gentle and persuasive. His kiss was tender and passionate. He was the strongest, fiercest man she knew and yet he did not force or plunder. He was not rough or grabbing. It seemed to her he gave rather than took. Courting her lips, teasing them, making her feel things she had never felt before. Making her want him never to stop.
By its own volition one hand moved up over his broad shoulder to hold against the nape of his neck. Anchoring herself to his solidity, to his strength and warmth.
He pulled her closer, their bodies melding together as the kiss intensified. Tasting, touching, sharing. His tongue stroked against hers, inviting hers to a dance she did not know and Emma followed where he led.
He kissed her and she forgot about Whitechapel and poverty and hardship.
He kissed her and she forgot about the darkness of the past and all her worries over the future.
He kissed her and there was nothing else in the world but this man and this moment of magic and madness, and the force of passion that was exploding between them.
And when Ned stopped and drew back to look into her face, her heart was thudding as hard as a blacksmith hitting his anvil and her blood was rushing so fast that she felt dizzy from it.
‘You should go up now, before I change my mind about being the perfect gentleman.’ He brushed the back of his fingers gently against her cheek.
With trembling legs she walked to the front door of the boarding house and let herself in. She did not look round, but she knew Ned Stratham still stood there watching her. Her heart was skipping in a fast, frenzied thud. Her blood was rushing. Every nerve in her body seemed alive. She closed the door quietly so as not to wake the neighbours. Rested her spine against its peeling paint while she drew a deep breath, calming the tremor in her body and the wild rush of her blood, before climbing the stairwell that led to her father and their rented rooms.
‘It is only me, Papa,’ she called softly.
But her father was sound asleep in the old armchair.
She moved to the window and twitched the curtain aside to look down on to the street.
Ned Stratham tipped his hat to her. And only then, when he knew she was home safe, did he walk away.
Emma blew out the candle to save what was left. Stood there and watched him until the tall broad-shouldered figure disappeared into the darkness, before turning to her father.
Even in sleep his face was etched with exhaustion.
‘Papa,’ she whispered and brushed a butterfly kiss against the deep lines of his forehead.
‘Jane?’ Her mother’s name.
‘It is Emma.’
‘Emma. You are home safe, my girl?’
‘I am home safe,’ she confirmed and thought again of the man who had ensured it. ‘Let me help you to bed.’
‘I can manage, my dearest.’ He got to his feet with a great deal of stiffness and shuffled through to the smaller of the two rooms.
The door closed with a quiet click, leaving Emma standing there alone.
She touched her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips and knew she should not have kissed Ned Stratham.
He was a Whitechapel man, a man from a different world than her own, a customer who drank in the Red Lion’s taproom. And he was fierce and dangerous, and darkly mysterious. And she had no future here. And much more besides. She knew all of that. And knew, too, her mother would be turning in her grave.
But as she moved behind the partitioning screen and changed into her nightdress, in her nose was not the usual sweet mildew, but the lingering scent of soap and leather and something that was just the man himself. And as she pulled back the threadbare covers and climbed into the narrow makeshift bed, in her blood was a warmth.
Emma lay there, staring into the darkness. They said when the devil tempted he offered a heart’s desire. Someone tall and dangerous and handsome. She closed her eyes, but she could still see those piercing blue eyes and her lips still tingled and throbbed from the passion of his kiss.
When exhaustion finally claimed her and she sank into the blissful comfort of sleep she dreamed of a tall, dangerous, handsome man tempting her to forbidden lusts, tempting her to give up her struggle to leave Whitechapel and stay here with him. And in the dream she yielded to her heart’s desire and was lost beyond all redemption.
* * *
Tom did not come to the Red Lion the next night, but Ned Stratham did.
Their gazes held across the taproom, the echoes of last night rippling like an incoming tide, before she turned away to serve a table. Butterflies were dancing in her stomach, but she knew that after what had happened between them, she had to rectify the matter. She emptied her tray, then made her way to where he sat alone.
Those blue eyes met hers.
She felt her heart trip faster and quelled the reaction with an iron hand. Faced him calmly and spoke quietly, but firmly enough that only he would hear.
‘Last night, we should not have, I should not have... It was a mistake, Ned.’
He said nothing.
‘I’m not that sort of a woman.’
‘You’re assuming I’m that kind of a man.’
‘Lest you had forgotten, this is a chop-house not so far from the docks. All the men in here are that kind of a man.’
He smiled at that. A hard smile. ‘Not gentlemen, but scoundrels.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘It’s what you meant.’
He glanced across the room to where Paulette was working behind the bar before returning his gaze to hers.
Nancy’s curses sounded from the kitchen.
And she knew he knew that Tom had not come in again, that there was no one to see her home.
Ned looked at her with eyes that made no pretence as to the man he was, with eyes that made her resolutions weaken.
‘Emma!’ Nancy’s voice bellowed.
‘It is not your duty to see me home.’
‘It is not,’ he agreed.
As their gazes held in a strange contest of wills, they both knew it was already decided. Ned Stratham was not going to let her take her chances with a kitchen knife through the Whitechapel streets tonight.
‘Get yourself over here, Emma!’ Nancy sounded as if she were losing what little patience she possessed.
Ned did walk her home. And he did kiss her. And she gave up pretending to herself that she did not want it or him.
* * *
He came to the Red Lion every night after that, even when Tom had returned. And every night he walked her home. And every night he kissed her.
* * *
Ned tumbled the token over his fingers and leaned his spine back against the old lichen-stained stone seat. St Olave’s church clock chimed ten. Down the hill at the London Docks the early shift had started five hours ago.
The sky was a cloudless blue. The worn stone was warm beneath his thighs. His hat sat on the bench by his side and he could feel a breeze stir through his hair. His usual perch. His usual view.
His thoughts drifted to the previous night and Emma de Lisle. Two weeks of walking with her and he could not get her out of his head. Not those dark eyes or that sharp mind. She could hold her own with him. She had her secrets as much as he. A lady’s maid who had no wish to discuss her dismissal or her background. She was proud and determined and resourceful. There weren’t many women in Whitechapel like her. There weren’t any women like her. Not that he had known across a lifetime and he had seen about as much of Whitechapel as it was possible to see.
Life had not worn her down or sapped her energy. She had a confidence and a bearing about her comparable with those who came from a lifetime of wealth. She had learnt well from her mistress. A woman like Emma de Lisle would be an asset to any man in any walk of life; it was a thought that grew stronger with the passing days.
And he wanted her. Ned, who did not give in to wants and desires. He wanted her with a passion. And he was spending his nights and too many of his days imagining what it would be like to unlace that tight red dress from her body, to bare her and lay her down on his bed. Ned suppressed the thoughts. He was focused. He was disciplined. He kept to the plan. It was what had brought him this far.
The plan had never involved a woman like her. The plan had been for someone quite different. But she was as refreshing as a cool breeze on a clammy day. She was Whitechapel, the same as him, but with vision that encompassed a bigger view. She had tasted the world on the other side of London. He had a feeling she would understand what it was he was doing, an instinct that she would feel the same about it as he did. And part of being successful was knowing when to be stubborn and stick to the letter of the plan and when to be flexible.
His gaze shifted.
The old vinegar manufactory across the road lay derelict. Pigeons and seagulls vied for supremacy on the hole-ridden roof. Weeds grew from the crumbling walls.
Tower Hill lay at his back. And above his head the canopy of green splayed beech leaves provided a dapple shelter. He could hear the breeze brush through the leaves, a whisper beside the noises that carried up the hill from the London Docks; the rhythmic strike of hammers, the creak and thud of crates being moved and dropped, the squeak of hoists and clatter of chains, the clopping of work horses and rumbling of carts.
A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle.
Ned’s fingers toyed with the ivory token as he watched the men moving about in the dockyard below, men he had known all of his life, men who were friends, or at least had been not so very long ago, unloading the docked ship.
Footsteps drew his attention. He glanced up the street and recognised the woman immediately, despite the fact she was not wearing the figure-hugging red dress, but a respectable sprig muslin and green shawl, and a faded straw bonnet with a green ribbon hid her hair and most of her face. Emma de Lisle; as if summoned by the vision in his head. She faltered when she saw him as if contemplating turning back and walking away.
He slipped the token into his waistcoat pocket and got to his feet.
She resumed her progress. Paused just before she reached him, keeping a respectable distance between them.
‘Ned.’
Last night’s passion whispered and wound between them.
He gave a nod of acknowledgement.
Once, many years ago, he had seen a honeycomb dripping rich and sweet with golden honey. In this clear, pure daylight her eyes were the same colour, not dark and mysterious as in the Red Lion.
Their gazes held for a moment, the echoes of last night rippling like a returning tide.
‘It seems that destiny has set you in my path again, Ned Stratham. Or I, in yours.’
‘And who are we to argue with destiny?’
They looked at one another for the first time in daylight.
The road she was walking led from only one place. ‘You have come from the dockyard.’
‘My father works there. I was delivering him some bread and cheese.’
‘He has a considerate daughter.’
‘Not really. He worked late last night and started early this morning.’
But she had worked late last night, too, and no doubt started early this morning. A shadow that moved across her eyes and a little line of worry etched between them. ‘Delivering his breakfast is the least I can do. He has a quarter-hour break at—’
‘Half past nine,’ he finished.
She lifted her eyebrows in unspoken question.
‘I used to work on the docks.’
‘And now?’
‘And now, I do not. Cards and chest,’ he said.
She laughed and the relaxed fascination he felt for her grew stronger.
‘Five o’clock start. Your father will be done by four.’
‘If only.’ She frowned again at the mention of her father. Twice in five minutes; Ned had never seen her look worried, even on the night when she had thought herself alone facing the two sailors in the alleyway. ‘He is on a double shift in the warehouse.’
‘Good money, but tiring.’
‘Very tiring.’ She glanced down the hill at the dockyard with sombre eyes. ‘It is hard work for a man of his age who is not used to manual labour.’
‘What did he do before manual labour?’
She gave no obvious sign or reaction, only stood still as a statue, but her stillness betrayed that she had not meant to let the fact slip.
Her gaze remained on the dockyard. ‘Not manual labour,’ she said in a parody of his answer to her earlier question. She glanced round at him then, still and calm, but in her eyes were both defence and challenge. Her smile was sudden and warm, deflecting almost. ‘I worry over my father, that is all. The work is hard and he is not a young man.’
‘I still know a few folk in the dockyard. I could have a word. See if there are any easier jobs going.’
The silence was like the quiet rustle of silk in the air.
‘You would do that?’
‘There might be nothing, but I’ll ask.’ But there would be something. He would make sure of it. ‘If you wish.’
He could see what she was thinking.
‘No strings attached,’ he clarified.
Emma’s eyes studied his. Looking at him, really looking at him, like no woman had ever looked before. As if she could see through his skin to his heart, to his very soul, to everything that he was. ‘I wish it very much,’ she said.
He gave a nod.
There was a pause before she said, ‘My father is an educated man. He can read and write and is proficient with arithmetic and mathematics, indeed, anything to do with numbers.’
‘A man with book learning.’
She nodded. ‘Although I’m not sure if that would be of any use in a dockyard.’
‘You would be surprised.’
They stood in silence, both watching the dockworkers unloading the ship, yet her attention was as much on him as his was on her.
‘Whatever you do for a living, Ned, whatever illicit activity you might be involved in...if you can help my father...’
‘You think I’m a rogue...’ He raised his brow. ‘Do I look a rogue?’
Her gaze dropped pointedly to the front of his shirt before coming back up to his face. It lingered on his scarred eyebrow before finally moving to his eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘My Mayfair shirt.’
‘And the eyebrow,’ she added.
‘What’s wrong with the eyebrow?’
‘It does give you a certain roguish appearance.’
He smiled at that.
And she did, too.
‘And if I am a rogue?’
She glanced away, gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders. ‘It would not affect how I judge you.’
‘How do you judge me, Emma?’
She slid a sideways glance at him. ‘Cards and chest, Ned.’
He laughed.
‘I should go and leave you to your contemplation.’
They looked at one another, the smile still in her sunlit eyes.
‘Join me,’ he said, yielding for once in his life to impulse. His eyes dared hers to accept.
He saw her gaze move to his scarred eyebrow again, almost caressingly.
He crooked it in a deliberate wicked gesture.
She smiled. ‘Very well, but for a few moments only.’ She smoothed her skirt to take a seat on the bench.
He sat down by her side.
A bee droned. From the branches overhead a blackbird sang.
Emma’s eyes moved from the dockyards to the derelict factory, then over the worn and pitted surface of the road mosaicked with flattened manure, and all the way along to the midden heap at its far end.
‘Why here?’ she asked.
‘I grew up here. It reminds me of my childhood.’
‘A tough neighbourhood.’
‘Not for the faint of heart,’ he said. ‘Children are not children for long round here.’
‘Indeed, they are not.’
There was a small silence while they both mused on that. And then let it go, eased by the peace of the morning and the place.
‘It is a beautiful view,’ she said.
Ned glanced round at her, wondering whether she was being ironic. ‘Men in gainful employment are always a beautiful sight,’ he said gravely.
‘I was not thinking in those terms.’ She smiled. ‘It reminds me of a Canaletto painting.’ Her eyes moved to the old manufactory. ‘It has the same ruined glory as some of his buildings. The same shade of stone.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen a Canaletto painting.’
‘I think you would like them.’
‘I think maybe I would.’
Her gaze still lingered on the derelict building as she spoke. ‘A ruined glory. There are pigeons nesting in what is left of the roof. Rats with wings, my father used to call them,’ she said.
‘Plenty good eating in a rat.’
She laughed as if he were joking. He did not. He thought of all the times in his life when rat meat had meant the difference between starvation and survival.
‘One day it will be something else,’ he said. ‘Not a ruined glory, but rebuilt.’
‘But then there will be no more violets growing from the walls.’
‘Weeds.’
‘Not weeds, but the sweetest of all flowers. They used to grow in an old garden wall I knew very well.’ The expression on her face was as if she were remembering and the memory both pained and pleased her.
Emma looked round at Ned then and there was something in her eyes, as if he were glimpsing through the layers she presented to the world to see the woman beneath.
‘I will remember that, Emma de Lisle,’ he said, studying her and everything that she was. A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle, the thought whispered again in his ear.
Their eyes held, sharing a raw exposed honesty.
Everything seemed to still and fade around them.
He lowered his face to hers and kissed her in the bright glory of the sunshine.
She tasted of all that was sweet and good. She smelled of sunshine and summer, and beneath it the scent of soap and woman.
He kissed her gently, this beautiful woman, felt her meet his kiss, felt her passion and her heart. Felt the desire that was between them surge and flare hot. He intensified the kiss, slid his arms around her and instinctively their bodies moulded together, as their mouths explored. He was hard for her, felt her thigh brush against his arousal, felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the slide of her hand beneath his jacket to stroke against his shirt, against his heart.
And then her palm flattened, pressed against his chest to stay him.
Their lips parted.
‘It is broad daylight, Ned Stratham!’ Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were dark with passion and shock. ‘Anyone might see us.’
He twitched his scarred eyebrow.
She shook her head as if she were chiding him, but she smiled as she got to her feet.
He stood, too.
A whistling sounded and a man’s figure appeared from the corner, trundling his barrow of fish along the road—Ernie Briggins, one of the Red Lion’s best customers. ‘Morning, Ned.’
Ned gave a nod.
Ernie’s eyes moved to Emma with speculation and a barely suppressed smile. ‘Morning, Emma.’
‘Morning, Ernie.’ Emma’s cheeks glowed pink.
Ernie didn’t stop, just carried on his way, leaving behind him the lingering scent of cod and oysters and the faint trill of his reedy whistle.
Emma said nothing, just raised her brows and looked at Ned with a ‘told you so’ expression.
‘I better get you safely home, before any more rogues accost you.’
‘I think I will manage more safely alone, thank you. Stay and enjoy your view.’ Her eyes held to his. ‘I insist.’ She backed away. Smiled. Turned to leave.
‘Emma.’
She stopped. Glanced round.
‘I’m going out of town for the next week or so. I have some business to attend to. But I’ll be back.’
‘Developed a compulsion for the porter, have you?’
‘A compulsion for something else, it would seem,’ he said quietly. ‘We need to talk when I return, Emma.’
‘That sounds serious.’
‘It is.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Will you wait for me?’
There was a silence as her eyes studied his. ‘I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham.’
Their eyes held, serious and intent, for a second longer. ‘I will wait,’ she said softly.
They shared a smile before she turned and went on her way.
He watched her walk off into the sunlight until she disappeared out of sight.
A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle. But not Ned.
A fancy new dress and Emma wouldn’t be out of place in Mayfair. Ned smiled to himself and, lifting his hat, began the long walk back across town.
* * *
The letter came the very next morning.
Emma stood in the rented room in the bright golden sunshine with the folded and sealed paper between her fingers, and the smile that had been on her face since the previous day vanished.
It had taken a shilling of their precious savings to pay the post boy, but it was a willing sacrifice. She would have sold the shoes from her feet, sold the dress from her back to accept the letter and all that it might contain.
Her heart began to canter. She felt hope battle dread.
The paper was quality and white, her father’s name written on the front in a fine hand with deep-black ink. There was no sender name, no clue impressed within the red-wax seal.
She swallowed, took a deep breath, stilled the churn in her stomach. It might not be the letter for which her father and she had both prayed and dreaded all of these two years past.
The one o’clock bell tolled in the distance.
She placed the letter down on the scrubbed wooden table. Stared at it, knowing that her father would not finish his shift before she left for the Red Lion, knowing, too, that he would probably be asleep by the time she returned. She was very aware that the answer to what had sent her mother to an early grave and turned her father grey with worry might lie within its folds.
Kit. She closed her eyes at the thought of her younger brother and knew that she could not get through the rest of this day without knowing if the letter contained news of him. Nor would her father. He would want to know, just the same as Emma. Whether the news was good...or even if it was bad.
She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, fastened her bonnet on her head and, with the letter clutched tight within her hand, headed for the London Docks.
Chapter Four (#ulink_1ba2fdf7-26a9-557b-97b6-587aa82a32b0)
Emma knew little of the warehouse in which her father worked. He had spoken nothing of it, so this was her first insight into the place that had become his world as much as the Red Lion had become hers.
All around the walls were great racks of enormous shelving stacked with boxes and bales. The windows in the roof were open, but with the heat of the day and the heavy work many of the men were working without shirts. She blushed with the shock of seeing their naked chests and rapidly averted her gaze, as she followed the foreman through the warehouse. Eventually through the maze of shelving corridors they came to another group of shirtless men who were carrying boxes up ladders to stack on high shelves.
‘Bill de Lisle,’ the foreman called. ‘Someone here to see you.’
One of the men stepped forward and she was horrified to see it was her father.
‘Papa?’ She forgot herself in the shock of seeing his gaunt old body, all stringy from hard labour.
‘Emma?’ She heard her shock echoed in his voice. In a matter of seconds he had reclaimed his shirt and pulled it over his head. ‘What has happened? What is wrong to bring you here?’
‘A letter. Addressed to you. I thought it might contain news of...’ She bit her lip, did not finish the sentence.
‘If you will excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen,’ her father said to the men behind him. ‘And Mr Sears,’ to the foreman who had brought her to him.
Her father guided her a little away from the group.
‘Bill?’
‘It is what they call me here.’
She gave a small smile. The smile faded as she passed the letter to him. ‘Maybe I should not have brought it here, but I thought...’ She stopped as her father scrutinised the address penned upon it. ‘The writing is not of Kit’s hand, but even so... Someone might have seen him. Someone might know his whereabouts.’
Her father said nothing, but she saw the slight tremble in his fingers as he broke the red-wax seal and opened the letter. He held it at arm’s length to read it since his spectacles were long gone.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry with anticipation. Rubbed her clammy palms together and waited. Waited until she could wait no more.
‘Is it good news?’
Her father finished reading and looked up at her. ‘It is the best of news, Emma...’
The breath she had been holding escaped in a gasp. Her heart leapt. The terrible tight tension that held her rigid relaxed.
‘...but it does not concern your brother.’
The warm happiness flowing through her turned cold. She glanced up at her father. ‘I do not understand.’
‘The letter is from Mrs Tadcaster, who was second cousin to your mama. She writes to say that the Dowager Lady Lamerton’s companion has run off with one of the footmen.’
‘Why is that good news?’
‘Because, my dear—’ he smiled ‘—the dowager is in need of a new companion, a woman of gentle breeding who would understand what was required of her and might start in the position with immediate effect.’
The penny dropped. Emma suddenly realised why her mother’s cousin had written to impart such trivial gossip. She knew where this was leading. And she should have been glad. Indeed, had it been only a few weeks ago she would have been. But much had happened in those weeks and the feeling in the pit of her stomach was not one of gladness.
‘Mrs Tadcaster had spoken to her ladyship of you and Lady Lamerton has agreed to take you on as her companion.’
Emma could not say a word.
‘Such sudden and surprising news after all this time. Little wonder you are shocked.’
She was shocked, but not for the reasons her father thought.
We need to talk when I return.
That sounds serious.
It is. Will you wait for me?
Ned’s words and all they might mean had not left her mind since yesterday. Her stomach felt hollow.
‘I cannot go.’
‘Why ever not?’ He stared at her
How could she tell him about Ned? Not a gentleman, but a Whitechapel man. A man who was tougher and more dangerous than all he had warned her against. A man who could best five men in a tavern fight and who had worked on these same docks. A man who made magic somersault in her stomach and passion beat through her blood. Whose kiss she wanted to last for ever...and who had implied he wanted a future with her.
‘I could not possibly contemplate leaving you here alone.’
‘Nonsense. It would be a weight off my mind to know that you were living a safe, respectable life with the Dowager Lady Lamerton. Do you not think I have enough to worry over with Kit?’
‘I understand that, but you need not worry over me.’
‘You are a serving wench in a tavern.’
‘It is a chop-house, Papa,’ she corrected him out of force of habit.
‘Emma, chop-house or tavern, it makes no difference. Do you think I do not know the manner of men with whom you must deal? Do you think there is a night goes by I am not sick with worry until Tom sees you safely home and I hear you coming through that front door?’
She felt guilt turn in her stomach at the thought of him worrying so much while she enjoyed being with Ned.
‘Were you with Lady Lamerton, I could find lodgings closer to the docks. There are always fellows looking for someone to share the rent on a single room. It would be easier for me. Cheaper. More convenient. And they are a good enough bunch in here. Tease me a bit, but that is the extent of it.’
‘Lady Lamerton will see this as an opportunity to glean every last detail of our scandal from me. You know she is chief amongst the gossipmongers and has a nose like a bloodhound.’
‘Clarissa Lamerton likes to be queen of the ton’s gossip, not its subject. She will grill you herself, but protect you from all others. What is this sudden change of heart, Emma? This argument is usually the other way around. You have always been so strong and committed to returning to society and tracing Kit.’
Emma glanced away.
‘Lady Lamerton’s ability to discover information is all the more reason to accept the position. You would be well placed, in one of the best households in London, to hear news of Kit. Lady Lamerton’s son has an association with Whitehall. Rest assured young Lamerton will hear if there is anything to be heard and thus, too, his mother. You have to take this opportunity, Emma, for Kit’s sake and mine, as well as for your own. You know that without me telling you.’
She did. That was the problem. She understood too well what he was saying and the truth in it.
‘If you stay here, you are lost. It is only a matter of time before one of these men makes you his own. Indeed, it is a miracle that it has not already happened.’
She glanced down at the floor beneath their feet so that he would not see the truth in her eyes.
But he reached over and tilted her face up to his. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, the very image of your mother when I met and married her. I want a better life for you than that which a husband from round here could offer you.’
She wanted to tell him so much, of Ned and all that was between them, but she could not. Not now, not when her duty was so pressing.
‘As if I would have a husband from round here.’ Her forced smile felt like a grimace.
Will you wait for me? In her mind she could see that soul-searching look in Ned’s eyes.
And hear her own reply. I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham...I will wait.
‘I am glad you have not forgotten your vow to your mother, Emma.’
‘How could I ever forget?’ She never would, never could. Family was family. A vow was just that, even if it was at the expense of her own happiness. She felt like her heart was torn between her family and the man she loved.
She told herself that Ned might not love her, that she might have misunderstood what it was he wanted to talk to her of. After all, he had made no promises or declarations, and despite all those late-night conversations and all their passion, they knew so little of each other. But in her heart, she knew.
She knew, but it did not change what she had to do.
‘You know you have to take this chance, Emma.’ Her father’s eyes scanned hers.
‘Yes.’ One small word to deny the enormity of what was in her heart.
‘I will go past the mail-receiving office on the way home, pay for paper and some ink and write to Mrs Tadcaster.’
She gave a nod.
‘Let me escort you from this place.’
Emma placed her hand on his arm and walked with him, without noticing the shirtless men who stopped working to watch her pass with silent appreciation.
She was thinking of all the days and nights she had worked so hard to escape Whitechapel, of all the times she had prayed for just such an opportunity. And now that her prayer had finally been answered she did not want to leave.
She was thinking of a man whose hair the sun had lightened to the colour of corn-ripened fields and whose eyes matched the cloudless summer sky outside; a man who had captured her heart, and to whom there would be no chance to explain.
* * *
On the afternoon of Ned’s return from Portsmouth, he went straight to a meeting in White’s Club. But now the meeting was concluded, the necessary introductions made and ideas discussed. He shook hands with the Earl of Misbourne, Viscount Linwood, the Marquis of Razeby and Mr Knight.
‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen?’ A nod of the head and he and his friend and steward, Rob Finchley, were out of the room and walking down the corridor.
Further down the corridor, he saw the small group of men who knew his secret. Men who were bursting with longing to take him down, to expose his real identity, but could not. They knew what would happen if they did. He met each of their gazes in turn across the distance, held them so that they would remember why they could not tell what itched upon their tongues to be out. And in return they glowered with all their haughty disdain.
Rob cursed beneath his breath. ‘They look at you as if you’re a gutter rat in their midst.’
Ned smiled at the group of arrogant young noblemen. It had the desired effect, twisting the knife a little deeper. ‘But remember what it costs them to stand there and suffer my presence.’
Rob grinned. ‘I feel better already.’
They were still smiling as they crossed St James’s Street and climbed into the waiting gig. It was a top-of-the-range model, sleek, glossy black exterior, cream leather seats; a small white circle enclosing a red diamond shape adorned the front plate. Ned did not look back. Just took up the reins and drove off.
‘I think you hooked Misbourne.’
‘Let’s hope.’ The wheels sped along. Ned kept his eyes forward concentrating on the traffic. ‘I can’t make Dawson’s ball tonight.’
‘Not like you to miss a big event like Dawson’s.’
‘I have a commitment elsewhere.’ His face was closed and impassive, his usual expression when it came to dealing with friend and foe alike.
‘All the bigwigs are going to be there.’
‘I know.’
There was a small silence before Rob said, ‘Must be important, this other commitment.’
‘It is.’ Ned slid a glance at his friend, let his eyes linger for a moment, in that quiet confrontational way, and smiled.
Rob smiled, too. ‘All right, mate. I get the hint. I’ll stop fishing about your mystery woman.’
* * *
A few hours later, Ned walked alone into the Red Lion Chop-House. Some heads nodded at him, recognising him from the weeks before. Ned felt the usual comfort and ease that sat about the place, felt it as soon as he crossed the parish boundary that divided the East End from the rest of London. The taproom was busy as usual, the tables and rowdy noise of the place spilling out into the alleyway in front. His eyes scanned for Emma, but did not find her.
The first suspicion stroked when he saw that it was Paulette who came to serve him.
‘Your usual, is it?’
He gave a nod. ‘Emma not in tonight?’
‘Thought you might ask that.’ She smiled a saucy knowing look. ‘Emma’s gone. Landed herself some fancy job as a lady’s maid again. An offer she couldn’t refuse apparently, lucky mare. She left a message for you, though. Said to tell you goodbye. That she was real sorry she couldn’t tell you in person. Said she hoped you would understand.’
He dropped a coin into her hand for passing on the message. ‘Forget the lamb and the porter.’ He didn’t wait.
There were other chop-houses in Whitechapel. Other serving wenches. But Ned didn’t go to them. Instead he made his way up along Rosemary Lane to Tower Hill and the ancient stone bench beneath the beech trees. And he sat there alone and watched the day shift finish in the docks and the night shift begin. Watched the ships that docked and the ships that sailed. Watched until the sun set in a glorious blaze of fire over the Thames and the daylight faded to dusk and dusk to darkness.
Had she waited just one week...a single week and how different both their lives would have been.
Loss and betrayal nagged in his gut. He breathed in the scent of night with the underlying essence of vinegar that always lingered in this place. And he thought of the scent of soap and grilled chops and warm woman.
He thought of the teasing intelligence in her eyes and the warmth of her smile.
He thought of the passion between them and the sense that she made his world seem a better place.
He thought of what might have been, then he let the thoughts go and he crushed the feelings. Emma de Lisle had not waited. And that was that.
Ned was not a man who allowed himself to be influenced by emotion. He had his destiny. And maybe it was better this way. No distractions, after all.
He heard the cry of the watch in the distance. Only then did he make his way back across town to the mansion house in Cavendish Square.
* * *
Along the Westminster Bridge Road in Lambeth, the evening was fine and warm as Emma and the Dowager Lady Lamerton approached Astley’s Amphitheatre.
‘I say, this is really rather exciting,’ her new employer said as they abandoned the carriage to the traffic jam in which it was caught and walked the remaining small distance to the amphitheatre’s entrance.
‘It is, indeed.’ It was only Emma’s third day returned to life in London’s high society, albeit at a somewhat lesser level to that she had known, and already she was aware that there was a part of her that had settled so smoothly it was as if she had never been away—and a part that remained in Whitechapel, with her father...and another man.
She wondered again how her father was managing in his new lodging. Wondered if he was eating. Wondered if Ned Stratham had returned to the Red Lion yet and if Paulette had passed on her message.
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